


You’ll Keep Me Warm (I won’t be cold)

by FaeryQueen07



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray doesn’t know who he is anymore. He’s not Detective Vecchio, but he’s also not the Ray Kowalski from before Ray Vecchio, and he’s not sure where that leaves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You’ll Keep Me Warm (I won’t be cold)

When disaster is averted and everyone is safe and sound, camped out at the small airport as they wait to return to Chicago and whatever bits of their lives still exist there, Ray digs out enough change for a ten minute long-distance call. He’s got himself tucked into the corner, his back to the wall so he can keep an eye on Fraser, just in case the idiot gets it into his head to leave and not say goodbye, and his fingers dial by memory. Stella picks up on the second ring.

“Ray,” she says, an aggravated sigh that he hasn’t quite earned yet.

“Just—just hear me out Stella.” 

He pauses, because Fraser is watching him, a frown pulling at his eyebrows as he reads Ray’s lips. Ray smiles, wan and hollow, then turns his back. He’s not ready to have this conversation with Fraser just yet. First… first he needs Stella to tell him whether he’s completely out of his mind.

She huffs, annoyed, but when he doesn’t immediately start to speak, softens just a bit. “Is everything okay? Ra—Detective Vecchio said you guys managed to track down Muldoon and that the nerve gas was no longer a threat. Is there something I don’t know?”

“I just—that’s kinda it. I mean, we’re done, right? And in a few hours we’ll be starting the trek back to Chicago.”

“Uh huh.” She sounds hesitant, like she’s waiting for bad news.

Ray swallows, hunches his shoulders. “I’ll be back in Chicago and I—I won’t be Ray Vecchio anymore. I’ll just—I’ll just be Ray Kowalski, burnt-out cop and ex-husband.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Ray. I can’t be you’re fallback, your cushion.” Her tone is angry now, her assumptions all wrong. They used to be so good at getting on the same page, but that ended with their marriage.

He can feel Fraser's gaze on him and he hunches down further, drops his voice so Fraser's bat-like hearing won't be able to pick up his words. Ray doesn't want anyone's pity, least of all _his_.

“This isn’t about you, Stell. It ain’t about you and me. I get that that’s done, that’s over. I do. I just—” He glances over his shoulder, makes sure Fraser is still there, then turns, continuing to hide his conversation from Fraser’s steady gaze. “I just don’t know who Ray Kowalski is anymore. I don’t belong to the 2-7, I’m not Detective Ray Vecchio and I’m not—I’m not partners with an infuriatingly polite liaison from the Canadian Consulate. I don’t—I don’t know who I am any more, and I just—I need you to tell me if I’m stupid for getting so wrapped up in being someone else, in living someone else’s life…” He trails off, uncertain and frustrated and overwhelmingly sad.

When she replies, there a new edge to her tone, a distance in her voice that says she’s not really listening to him. “Of course it’s not about anyone but you, Ray. Why am I not surprised?”

Ray can feel his jaw tick. “This isn’t about—” Cuts himself off, then sighs. “I just mean—When we were stuck in the ice crevasse, me an’ Fraser, I swore that if we survived, I was gonna go find this reaching-out hand thingy. The Hand of Franklin, an explorer. But I, uh, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” He laughs a little, the sound high and unhappy. “So now I just—I don’t know what to do.”

Stella is silent for so long, he wonders if she’s hung, then she says, “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Ray, and neither do the people in it. You’re a big boy now, I just can’t be the person who sets you straight anymore. You have to start doing that on your own.”

Defeat is nothing new, and Ray swallows it down with only an inward flinch. “You know what, Stella, never mind. Sorry to have bothered you.” He disconnects before she can respond to that and turns around to find Fraser suddenly _right there_. He has to stumble back just to avoid running into him, and it takes Ray a second to steady himself.

“Everything all right, Ray?” Fraser asks, something akin to censure in his eyes and tone.

His appearance was startling to say the least, and Ray is still a little wrong-footed, so it takes Ray a few seconds to pull his shit together enough to nod.

“Oh, yeah, just, you know. Stella being Stella.” He shrugs, turns to look out the window, but not so quickly that he misses the way Fraser’s face gets tight.

“We’re boarding now. I thought I’d let you know as it didn’t look as though you heard the announcement.”

“Yeah, no, I missed that. Hey, listen, about the Hand of Franklin—” 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence, because Inspector Thatcher chooses that moment to call out for Fraser. There’s this moment, where it seems like Fraser might refuse, but then he nods to Ray. “Duty,” he says, just like before.

Unlike last time, Ray doesn’t finish the rest for him, just watches as Fraser walks away and wonders what the hell he’s going to do with his life once he’s back in Chicago.

*.*.*.*

The plane ride is long and unpleasant. Ray spends most of it feigning sleep because that way he can at least pretend it’s the reason no one comes to sit by him, no one tries to talk to him. It stings, a lot, but then, Ray didn’t really do much in the way of assisting in the takedown of Muldoon. That was ninety percent Fraser and ten percent the rest of the Mounties. Ray was just along for the ride, and now he’s just along for the ride back.

It sucks, and he’s forced to admit that going undercover is just like getting married. You get this life you start to think of as your own, friends, family. Then it ends and you realize just how little any of that was actually yours. Ray has his parents, sure, but he’s an only kid, so pretending to be a Vecchio, being a part of all those siblings… that had felt _good_.

Now, though—now it’s just Ray again. He doesn’t realize how true that is until they’re all crowded in the 27th Precinct’s bullpen and he’s forced to watch as Vecchio swoops in to hug Fraser with one arm… his other arm tucked tight around Stella’s waist. It’s like a punch to the gut, and up until right that second, Ray had no idea just how much he still had to lose.

People good-naturedly fight their way through to the group, taking turns clapping Fraser on the shoulder, tugging him close for a hug. Ray thinks that maybe if Diefenbaker were there, he wouldn’t be so alone right now, but Dief is back in Canada where he belongs, waiting for Fraser to return. Something like relief sets in when Lieutenant Welsh appears at Ray’s side, but it’s gone in the next instant, stolen away by the loose handshake and easy words falling from the lieutenant’s mouth.

“I just wanted to let you know, once your report is done, you’re free to go. Figure you’re probably ready to get back to your old job. It was good to have you, Kowalski.”

Lieutenant Welsh slaps him on the back, then moves on, Frannie not far behind as she struggles to part the crowd keeping her separated from Fraser. Ray waits a beat, tries to catch Fraser’s eye, but it clearly isn’t meant to be, not when Fraser is looking and talking in every direction but Ray’s.

The paperwork is there, waiting for him, but it’s too noisy in the bullpen, so Ray gathers it all up and takes it home with him. He spends a good two hours filling out the reports, double checking his gun and the empty clip to make sure the number of missing bullets match up with the shots fired he reported. He takes a break to make coffee, drinks half the pot, then settles in again. He hates paperwork, but the routine of it is enough to focus his attention on something other than the quiet of his apartment, and he stays at it until he’s too exhausted to do anything more than fall into bed.

It works, too. When he wakes up the next morning, Ray’s head is too full of work to worry about anything else. He showers, pulls a pair of dark jeans, a Sex Pistols t-shirt and his coat, then gathers up the paperwork and heads over to the 2-7. It’s quiet inside, kinda eerie, and most of the faces he sees are only vaguely familiar, not his normal crowd. 

Welsh is on the phone, so Ray doesn’t bother interrupting, just drops off his completed paperwork on Frannie’s empty desk and heads back out. He thinks about going to get some food, but he’s itching to get away from this haunt. Instead, Ray navigates the mostly barren streets, and soon enough, he’s at his old precinct, pulling into one of the side spots. It feels good to be back, too good, in fact, and he sees why the moment he steps through door.

There’s someone sitting at Ray’s desk, feet up on the corner and picture frames of people Ray has never seen scattered across the surface. Lieutenant Morehouse sees him, and Ray can only describe the expression on his face as extremely uncomfortable.

“You’re, uh, you’re back early. Thought you had another two months on the thing you were doing.” Lieutenant Morehouse scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, the thing is, we hired Detective Morgan on about six months after you left. He’s really settled in here. I’m not saying you can’t have your old job back, just… Maybe you should take some time off while we shuffle things around? You’ve got almost three months of vacation saved up, and no offense, but you look like you could use a break.”

It’s a slap in the face, but Ray knows nothing if not how to roll with the punches. He was burnt out before the undercover assignment and this—this he thinks is a sign. He isn’t angry when he unclips his gun, isn’t mad when he pulls out his badge, and doesn’t miss the bulk against his chest when he digs out the phone he was issued. He hands them all over, salutes, and says,

“I think I’ll take that vacation and then some. Early retirement, or something.”

Lieutenant Morehouse blinks, then shrugs. “If you say so, but I’ll hold onto this, just in case. If you have a change of heart—”

“I won’t. We both know I won’t. Consider this my two-weeks. I’ll fill out whatever paperwork you need me to and be on my way.”

They’ll pay out the vacation time, and he’s got a lot in savings, though he knows one wouldn’t guess it looking at his apartment. Ray has never seen the point in having more than he needs, and he’s glad for it now. It means he’s got enough money that if he wants to take a year off and just _live_ , he can. He gives himself two months tops before he’s itching to work again, but being a cop isn’t the only way to make a difference, to make things better.

It’s fitting, too. The Ray that existed before he took on Vecchio’s life had been downright miserable, with two o’clock a.m. drinks at dive bars and solo dancing in his living room as his only hobbies. Now he’s back to square one, and it sucks, it does, because there’s a part of Ray that’s missing, but he can’t do anything more about that than he could about the piece Stella took with her. He just has to move forward, move on.

When he gets home, he stands in the middle of his apartment and thinks, ‘I need a change,’ but doesn’t know where to start. A new apartment maybe? He likes where he lives, but he’s not overly attached. As for his stuff, he hates how it’s all come to define him, like maybe he isn’t even his own person, just a sum of all the objects he’s collected throughout his life: a battered sofa that marked the end of his life as a married man; the coffee table he found on the street corner not long after the sofa was given to him. 

“Start from scratch, Kowalski,” Ray says into the silence. “Start at the basics and work your way up.”

*.*.*.*

Ray gets his answer four days later when a notice is posted in the main entryway. He figures the landlady won’t really care. They aren’t close, no matter what she may have led—no. Don’t think about that. They aren’t close, either way, so he doubts she’ll care. He pays up through the end of the next two months, just to make sure he doesn’t leave her short on money if she can’t find someone to take over his apartment quickly enough, then finds a new place just a few blocks away, ready for move-in.

It doesn't take long to move. Within a few days, Ray gets his phone number changed and his utilities moved over to the new tiny one-bedroom, and the Mounty-shaped hole in his soul is still a gaping wound, but he’s learning to cope. He is. Sure, he wakes up in the middle of the night with the echo of Fraser’s voice in his head, but he hasn’t started back on the drinking to make it stop, either, so he’s not too bad off. He’ll move on. It might take a while, but Ray can do it. He got over Stella, eventually; he can get over Benton Fraser.

Ray is just leaving his old apartment complex—having dropped off groceries for the elderly Mrs. Walters who liked to feed him up on occasion but is now recovering from a broken hip—when he hears voices down in the main entryway. He can’t hear the exact words, but he recognizes Fraser’s voice and starts taking the stairs a little faster, heart pounding his chest like something out of a cheesy romance movie. Sure enough, Fraser is there, watching the moving men load Ray’s old sofa onto the Goodwill truck, his face a mask of devastation that has Ray’s heart stopping for second.

“Fraser! What—what’s happened?” His mind goes to Stella, Ray Vecchio and Frannie, and he wonders what he’s missed since he cut himself off from that old life. 

The delivery guys ignore him, and he steps aside to let them pass before racing the rest of the way down to Fraser. For a second, Fraser looks like he’s seen a ghost, then he shakes his head and backs up, hands out to keep Ray at bay. The rejection hurts, and Ray slows in his steps.

“I can’t—I can’t do this, Ray.”

“Do… what?” Ray glances around, but there’s only Mrs. Peterson. She’s never liked Ray, and she makes a point of pretending not to see him as she tips her hat Fraser and continues on her way. 

“You. I can’t—you can’t do this to me. You can’t be here.”

And now Ray is completely confused because yeah, maybe he moved out, but he’s still got more of a right to be here than Fraser.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He reaches out, only to have Fraser flinch away from him. “Fraser…”

Fraser turns and starts walking, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I used to see my father, Ray.”

“Um, okay? And then he died—”

Fraser looks at him, sad. “After he died. He, uh. He had an office in my closet at the Consulate, and sometimes he’d show up in the backseat of your car. Or Ray Vecchio’s car. Or just wherever.”

That’s weird, it really is, but it also explains so damn much. Ray says as much. 

“You could have told me sooner, Fraser. We’re—we were buddies.” He doesn’t know what the hell they are now, but ‘distant acquaintances’ is a mouthful and leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

Fraser shakes his head and keeps walking. “No one else could see him. I mean, except for Sergeant Frobisher and my—my sister. But that’s not the point. The point is that he died, and then he was here again and I thought—I thought he was always going to be here.”

“And he isn’t?” Ray glances around again, just to check. He’s a little disappointed he never got to meet Fraser’s father, either in the flesh or in the… spirit.

“No. No, Ray, because nothing is permanent. And I can’t—I can’t have you here right now, knowing that at any time, you’ll leave again.”

“Okay, wait, what the hell’s that gotta do with your father, Fraser? Huh? I mean, he’s dead. I’m not.”

Fraser stops, and he looks so heartbreakingly sad that Ray stops walking and just stands there, staring. 

“You don’t even—you have no idea.” 

It’s not a question, and it makes Ray nervous, antsy. “No idea about what? Jesus, Fraser, did someone else die?”

“Yes, Ray, you did,” Fraser says, blunt.

Ray blinks, and in the time it takes him to find his tongue, Fraser is backing away, shaking his head. 

“I’m not dead, Fraser.”

“I can’t do this, not with you, Ray,” Fraser says with finality. 

Fraser spins away, jogs out into the street without even looking, and it’s only because Ray knows this neighborhood—knows how no one ever actually stops at the corner because the sign was knocked down a few weeks ago and the paint is all but worn away—that he’s already moving, just steps behind Fraser as the car comes peeling around the corner going too fast to stop. It doesn’t need to, though, because Ray closes the distance between he and Fraser with a leap that sends them tumbling out of harm’s way, Ray landing with a painful ‘oomph’ on top of Fraser.

“Oh my god.” Fraser stares up at him, stunned, then twists until their positions are reversed, Ray pinned between the asphalt and Fraser. “You’re not dead.”

“I’m not dead. Jesus. Why would you even think that, Fraser?”

“Your phone was turned off and the man at your apartment said the owner of the sofa died.”

“Oh. Oh, no, that was another tenant. She passed away a few days ago. I just had the donation truck pick up a few things of mine, too. Stuff I didn’t need anymore.”

He expects embarrassment, or even just a laugh, but instead he gets Fraser’s mouth on his, hot and demanding and everything Ray has been wanting since… well, for a while.

“I thought—and then I just.” Fraser pulls back enough to look Ray in the eye. “You disappeared after we got back, and then I heard you had quit, but when I tried to call, your phone was turned off. Why did you leave?” 

He sounds so lost and sad, and Ray looks away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “Because you were surrounded by people who wanted to see you and I—no one was looking for me, so I just figured that’s how it was gonna be. I wasn’t Ray Vecchio anymore, and it just—I didn’t have a place there, you know? He was back, and you guys—you guys are partners, and you said all that stuff about your father and Frobisher, and I thought maybe you meant that even though Vecchio had been gone, he was still your partner and I just—I thought maybe it was your polite way of saying I was irrelevant. Not that I blame you, okay? I mean, you and Vecchio—”

“That is _not_ what I meant,” Fraser says, cutting him off. 

He looks furious, and he jerks to his feet, yanking Ray up with him. He doesn’t say anything more, just grabs a fistful of Ray’s jacket and starts pushing him down the street in the direction of what Ray assumes is the Consulate. They’re about thirty long blocks away, but it’s clear Fraser has no intention of relinquishing his grip long enough for them to get in a car, so Ray says,

“My new place is around the corner,” and leads them in that direction. 

He’s on the first floor this time, thank god, because he doesn’t think they’d have made it up the stairs, not at the rate Fraser is pushing him along, fingers still clenched in the back of Ray’s jacket. Ray’s hands shake just a little as he digs out his keys and unlocks the door, and he’s trying to figure out what to say as they step inside, but all that becomes moot when he’s slammed back against the door and Fraser’s mouth is on his again.

“You just left, and I couldn’t figure out where you’d gone, and you don’t check in, aren’t ever at your apartment when I stop by. You can’t just do that, Ray. You can’t just leave me.”

Each word is punctuated by a sharp, biting kiss that leaves Ray’s lips swollen, the skin on his neck bruised. He doesn’t fight it, gives himself over to everything Fraser has, in fact, and when those strong, steady hands start stripping him, he can’t do more than shiver and let it happen.

Ray knows where this is going. Fraser is a possessive sonofabitch, and though most days he’s got that part of himself under control, it’s clear that isn’t the case now. His hands are far from gentle as he yanks Ray’s clothes open and off, and it’s only good fortune that there’s a bottle of lotion sitting out on the coffee table when Fraser drags him over to the living room floor and shoves him down. Good fortune and a bad habit for leaving shit out when he’s done with it. Rough fingers press into him, spread him open and make way for something bigger, and it’s just a little bit terrifying like this, with Fraser so uncharacteristically angry, but it’s also so goddamn _good_.

Then Fraser is there, nudging his way in, going slower now. The hand that’s been holding Ray in place shifts up, Fraser’s fingers sinking into his hair, and his head is tipped back for a kiss that is soft yet hungry. A plea, not a demand.

“Fraser.”

“Ray. _Rayrayrayray_.”

His name becomes a mantra, chanted out as Fraser sinks all the way inside him. It hurts, being stretched like this, but Fraser’s other hand is on Ray’s cock, stroking it to fullness, his fingers teasing around the crown. He thrusts once, tentative, and when Ray just hisses out a ‘ _yesss_ ,’ picks up the pace. He fucks hard and fast, nothing like what Ray would have guessed, but everything like Ray needs, and while it lasts, Ray is _soaring_.

He comes with a shout, his fingers biting bruises into Fraser’s shoulders, leaving red welts down his back. Fraser is right behind, and it’s only as Ray feels the spill of liquid heat inside him that he realizes there’s nothing between them. That that’s Fraser’s _come_ inside him. Impossibly, Ray’s cock jerks, spills just a little bit more to add to the mess accumulated on his stomach.

When Fraser tries to pulls out, Ray holds him in, ankles locked behind his thighs, unwilling to give this up just yet. Fraser blinks down, blue eyes clearer now, calmer, and he drops his forehead to Ray’s, their lips brushing as he speaks.

“What I meant is that no matter where I go, Ray Vecchio and I will still be friends. Distance doesn’t matter for that. I don’t need to see him every day, but you… I don’t want that for us, you in one place and me in another. I want us together, wherever that is. If you want to move to Arizona where your parents are—”

“I really, really don’t. I want to find the Hand of Franklin. I want you to show me all the places you’ve talked about in your stories. I just—people leave, Fraser, but more than that, they’re always leaving me. So I just—I figured that now that I wasn’t your partner—”

“You are. You’re my partner in every way that counts. I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me to Canada on Muldoon’s trail if I hadn’t.” His smile softens the bite of his next words. “There’s no denying you slowed me down, but I would rather have that, than not have you with me.”

“Oh. Okay then. That’s uh, that’s good to know. And me too, you know. I mean, if I have to freeze to death, I’d rather it be with you than anyone else. Or alone. That would suck, too, Fraser.”

“Yes, Ray. I know.”

Ray licks his lips. “Okay then.”

Fraser tips his head to the side, leans closer to brush his lips along the line of Ray’s jaw, down his throat.

“Do you really want to look for the Hand of Franklin with me, Ray?”

Ray nods and sucks in a startled breath at the press of Fraser’s teeth to the thin skin over his collarbone. “Yes, Fraser, I would like that very much.”

“It will be terribly cold, Ray,” Fraser warns.

“Yeah, well, this time I’ll have warmer clothes with me, and we’ll take it slow, right? Let me adjust to the freezing temperatures of the northern territories. I’m a fairly adopt—apt—what’s that word?”

“Adaptable?” Fraser smiles down at him, fond.

“Yeah, that one. I’m adaptable. And I’ll have you. You can do that buddy breathing thing, only, like, with your body heat. I hear that works real well to keep people warm.”

Fraser settles closer, his hips shifting, pushing him deeper. “I think that is very good idea, Ray.” 

He moves again, and Ray startles, feeling Fraser harden inside him. “Wow, okay, hey. Is that—is that like, a Mountie thing? Getting hard again so quickly?”

“No, Ray, that is not a ‘Mountie thing.’”

Swallowing hard, Ray nods his head, eyes wide. “Oh, um, okay…”

Fraser takes pity on him, rolls his hips once, twice, and steals a kiss. “That, Ray, is a _you_ thing.”

He starts to move for real, then. Pulling back until just the head of his dick is still inside, then pushing in deep, hard enough to lift Ray’s hips off the floor. Fraser braces himself with his elbows and uses his hands to tilt Ray’s head to the side, make his mouth accessible for more kissing. Ray isn’t hard yet, is maybe a third of the way there, but it feels good anyway, feels like he’s fucking flying, and it only gets better when Fraser works a hand down between them, his fingers brushing over the place where they’re joined together.

His eyes go round and he tips to the side, brings his hand up to look at the come smeared over his fingers, only just realizing that it’s his, that—stupid as it is because Jesus, safe sex, kids!—he’s already come inside Ray once today and now it’s slipping out. 

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Ray, I should—”

Ray doesn’t have time for regrets, not right now and certainly not about this. He knows he’s clean because he was always safe on the rare occasions he picked up—the last being a long time ago, not that anyone is counting—and he gets tested every six months because he's a cop and there's no knowing what you might be exposed to in the line of duty. He’d stake his life on Fraser being clean, too, because taking risks isn’t in his genetics. So Ray reaches for that hand, brings it to his lips and cleans away the evidence.

“Fraser, if you stop now, I will kill you. Do not test me, Fraser, because I think—I think I’ve wanted this since the moment you walked into the 2-7 and didn’t believe I was Ray Vecchio.”

That makes Fraser relax a little. “Because you aren’t, Ray. You were never Ray Vecchio, not to me, but I never wanted you to be. I just wanted you to be you.”

Ray doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut except for when he’s sucking a bruise high on Fraser’s neck, where everyone will see it. He sinks his teeth into it, too. Licks over the wound and shivers as finally, _finally_ , he starts to get hard. Fraser doesn’t waste any time reaching for him, either, jerking him just the right side of too rough until Ray cries out, his body going tight as his orgasm slams through him.

He feels Fraser come again and laughs a little. Later, once Fraser has had time to really worry about how stupid they were, not using condoms, Ray will tell him what it feels like, having Fraser spill, liquid hot inside him. How now that he’s had that, he doesn’t ever want to not have it. Or maybe Fraser will surprise him and not make a big deal out of it.

Fraser does pull out this time, despite Ray’s half-muttered protestations. He’s sore and exhausted and he hates how empty he feels. When Fraser turns him over, Ray lets him, not willing to expend any energy without good cause. Which comes, seconds later, at the feel of Fraser’s finger spreading him open, probing at him.

“You’re very red and swollen, Ray, but there doesn’t seem to be any tearing.”

Disgruntled, Ray tries to pull away. “Of course I’m not torn, idiot.” He flexes, tries to tighten himself up down there because he feels like he’s gaping open, but stops when Fraser makes this choked-off noise. “What? What is it?” Ray demands.

“I, um. I can see, uh. Well, that is to say, I can see my…” Fraser trails off, but Ray gets it now.

“You can see your come slipping out of me,” he says, smug. He flexes again, shivering as more come slides out and down, then sucks in sharp breath because Fraser’s mouth is _right there_ , his tongue seemingly scorching hot as it pushes into Ray, follows the trail down to Ray’s balls and then back up to the source again. 

“God, Ray,” Fraser says, voice wrecked, strained.

Ray thinks he cries just a little when his dick tries to get in on the action, and when he comes again, minutes later, it’s dry and almost painful, but so fucking worth it. He’s boneless, afterward. Doesn’t put up a fight when he’s manhandled up and into the bathroom, doesn’t resist when the shower is turned on and he’s thrust inside with little fanfare. The water is tepid, but warms up quickly, pushing him closer toward sleep. Fraser gets in behind him, works his fingers back up inside Ray to clean him out, then the water is shut off and they’re moving again, this time to the bed.

Ray falls into a blissful sleep, Fraser’s hand settled low on his back, his fingers dipping down to slip inside Ray every so often. They’ll have to talk about that, later, about how they can’t go looking for the Hand of Franklin if Fraser can’t keep his hands, mouth, dick out of Ray. But that’s an argument for later, after they’ve slept, eaten, and had sex again.


End file.
